The Power of Finding Connection in a Lonely, Polarized World

A few weeks ago, I got a complaint from our neighbors that “you guys are laughing too loud.” I did not know whether to take it as a complaint or a compliment.

Because in today’s world, when AI is taking over and most of us are buried in our phones, the idea that a group of adults is laughing together loudly enough to disturb the quiet felt almost miraculous.

Every time you pass by our dance studio, you can hear laughter spilling into the hallway. Singing. Cheering. The kind of joy that makes people pause and think, What is happening in there, and why does it feel so rare?

That same evening, I paused during class, took a deep breath and looked around. In that brief stillness, I felt something unusual. A moment of genuine human connection in a world that feels increasingly fractured.

It hit me then.

We are lonelier than ever, yet craving connection more than ever.

And this is happening at a time when technology promises to keep us closer than ever. AI is advancing faster than our understanding of it. Machines are learning how to sound like us and even soothe us. We carry entire worlds in our pockets, but rarely look up long enough to notice the ones standing right in front of us.

We are living through a strange irony. We have never been more connected on paper, yet more disconnected in spirit.

Because connection does not come from information. It comes from presence.

Sometimes it does not arrive through grand moments. It arrives quietly. When someone shows up. Messy. Tired. Vulnerable. Willing.

The Loneliness We Do Not Talk About

A few months ago, a young woman walked into our studio for the first time. Petite. Terrified. She panicked within minutes and left.

The next day, she came back.

She took class, and afterward she burst into tears while hugging me. Not because of the choreography, but because it was the first time in six months of living in Seattle that she had stepped outside her home alone.

Today, she is surrounded by friends and lighting up the stage with confidence.

Sometimes connection begins with the courage to return the next day.

We Are Surrounded, Yet Alone

People often tell me, “I talk to people all day, but I still feel lonely.”

We are constantly reachable, yet emotionally unavailable. We are in group chats all day, but cannot name one person we would call in the middle of the night.

Phones have replaced presence. Scrolling has replaced speaking. And AI is stepping into spaces once reserved for human comfort.

Don't get me wrong. None of these are the enemy. But they cannot replace one another.

Because loneliness is not the absence of noise. It is the absence of being known.

Connection Is Built in Hard Moments

Last year, one of our dancers was diagnosed with breast cancer and rushed to India for emergency surgery. She missed the showcase, but fought to return in time to sit in the audience and cheer for her team.

She told me, “The biggest motivator for me to recover and get back on my feet was to be part of Live2Dance.”

Eight months later, she was back on stage. Dancing her fear into dust.

Technology can remind us we are sick. People remind us we are alive.

 

Human Connection is the Greatest Survival Tool

There is the student who lost his wife due to a prolongiled illness. He was close to ending everything for himself too. Instead, he stumbled into our studio. Not looking for dance. Looking for a reason to stay.

Weeks later, he stood in front of me with tears in his eyes and said, “Live2Dance is one of the reasons I survived.”

No app could have saved him. A room full of humans did.

 

The Paradox of Our Time

We have AI that can write poetry but no time to ask someone how they are

We have endless followers but very few witnesses

We have conversations with machines but avoid uncomfortable conversations with each other

The danger is not that AI will become more human, The danger is that humans will become less human

Connection is not efficient, It is not optimized, It is not instant

It takes time, It takes patience, It takes heart

And none of that can be automated

Why This Matters Now

We are living in a time where loneliness is at epidemic levels. Trust is declining and division is rising. People feel unseen in their own cities

But we are also living in a time where communities can be built from scratch. Joy can become resistance and Kindness can become culture. And belonging can still save lives

The world may feel polarized, but it is not hopeless

Beyond Dance: What Connection Makes Possible

Through the relationships built in our studio, people have found jobs, navigated immigration, survived grief and illness, found life partners and lifelong friends, made homes in a country far from their own and held on during the pandemic when they had no one else

Community does not change every circumstance but it changes the way we carry it

My Hope

If there is one thing I have learned from building a community in Seattle, it is this:

Connection does not require changing the world, just changing how we show up in it

You do not need a plan, you just need one sincere moment. One pause long enough to say

I see you

In a world racing toward automation, the most radical thing we can offer is, OUR ATTENTION

And if there is one truth I want to leave you with, it is this:

In a lonely, polarized world, connection is not found online. It is found on the floor. Side by side. Moving to the same beat.

Why Dance Businesses Are the Unsung Engines of City Growth

When cities talk about economic growth, they talk about tech, real estate, restaurants, retail. Rarely, if ever, do they talk about dance businesses. And yet, dance studios are quietly shaping the cultural, economic, and social heartbeat of our cities.

As someone who left a cushy corporate career to build a dance community in Seattle, I’ve lived both sides. I know the spreadsheets that don't add up, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices, the self-doubt that creeps in when the bills are high and the energy is low. 

And I also know this: dance businesses may not look like “big business,” but their impact is undeniable.

We Preserve Culture and Enrich Communities

Every time a student steps into our studio, they don't just learn dance... they reconnect with themselves. 

As an adult, making friends in a new city is hard. Add the layer of being an immigrant, and it can feel almost impossible.

Dance changes that. It turns strangers into a family.

For immigrants, dance becomes a bridge between “home” and “here.” It also helps second-generation kids connect with their roots, and it helps cities like Seattle expand their cultural palette.

Our studio has become that home away from home. A space where culture isn’t just preserved, it’s lived.

We Drive the Local Economy

Running a dance studio is not just teaching dance. It’s managing staff, paying rent, renting theaters, designing costumes, hiring photographers, videographers, marketing teams, event managers, and so much more

It’s the ripple effect that goes unseen. Restaurants filled before and after classes, parking garages overflowing, vendors, designers, caterers, stage crews all thriving because of one performance night.

Multiply that by numerous such nights in our studio and hundreds of studios across a city, and you start to see what nobody talks about; how dance businesses silently fuel local economies, while also filling hearts.

We Build the City’s Emotional Fabric

Dance is not just movement. It’s therapy. It’s connection. It’s belonging. In our studio, I’ve seen exhausted corporate professionals find joy again; students with social anxiety shine on stage and cries after, because they finally felt seen; moms reclaim their identities beyond motherhood.

I see this happen all day, everyday.

And it’s not just about the people inside the studio. Dance businesses often become the glue between communities and civic institutions. From police-community bridge events to charity fundraisers, dance creates the kind of human connection that no policy paper ever could.

We Model Resilience and Leadership

Most dance entrepreneurs I know are women, immigrants, or people from underrepresented backgrounds. 

We’ve built our businesses from scratch, with no investors, no playbook, just a vision and grit.

We’ve survived high rents, pandemic shutdowns, visa rejections, financial droughts and endless “Are you sure this is sustainable?” looks

And yet adapt. Moving online, reinventing our offerings, staying alive when others fold.

This resilience isn’t just about business survival. It sets an example for our students, our kids, our communities: that you can chase your passion, build something meaningful, and still contribute to the city’s growth.

The Multiplier Effect

One dance business isn’t just one dance business. It’s a ripple. It’s energy. It’s creativity spilling out into the streets, enriching the city in ways you can’t always put on a balance sheet.

And that’s the point.

Cities don’t just need infrastructure — they need heartbeat.
Dance studios are that heartbeat.
They build confidence, connection, and culture. They create citizens who feel seen, supported, and alive.

And yet, they’re often dismissed as hobbies.

I call it home. A place where strangers turn into families, where culture finds its voice again, and where cities remember to breathe.

So the next time we talk about “building strong cities,” let’s not forget the ones who are literally teaching our cities to dance. 💛

40. FOUR ZERO.

Forty trips around the sun. Forty New Year’s resolutions I didn’t keep. Forty chances to stumble, rise, stumble again, and rise a little taller each time.

When I was little, honestly, 40 looked like a full stop. A number so big it felt like life would surely end there. You know… people at 40 were supposed to retire, sit in their verandas, and complain about their backs. Old. Grumpy. Done.

Well, LOL. How wrong were we?

Because here I am at 40 and the story’s just getting good.

Something flipped this year. Like a switch inside me. Suddenly, I don’t care who’s watching, clapping, or whispering behind my back. I don’t care to “keep up” or “prove myself.” I’ve found my lane, and I’m swimming in it—loudly, joyfully, unapologetically. And oh boy, it’s liberating.

This last decade? Whew. It wasn’t pretty. Between raising kids (while constantly wondering if I’m screwing it up), building a business from scratch, heartbreaks, failures, pandemic, bankruptcy, broken bones, losing people I loved, mental, emotional, and physical breakdowns, raising my voice for those who couldn’t, lawsuits, injuries, bankruptcy, vandalism—you name it. Life threw the whole kitchen sink at me.

And yet… in the middle of the chaos, I grew up.

I stopped chasing validation.
I stopped measuring my worth in applause, Instagram likes, or polite nods of “you’re doing so well.”

My definition of success shifted from validation → to impact.

Success no longer looks like trophies, promotions, or milestones.

It looks like, the sound of my kids’ giggles echoing through the house. A student telling me they feel “seen” on the dance floor. A random message that says, “Hey, you made my day better.” The quiet joy of knowing that my work has created a safe space for someone.

At 40, success is not about proving myself. It’s about improving the spaces I step into.
It’s not about competing. It’s about creating. It’s leaving a legacy etched in hearts.

Did I hit every target I once dreamed of? Nope. I missed plenty.
But what I gained instead? Love. Warmth. Blessings. COUNTLESS.

So here’s to 40.
To being bold. To being messy. To laughing out loudest. To being unapologetically me. To being silly. To being wildly ambitious. But ambitious for joy, not just milestones.

To building a life that will outlive me. Not in monuments, but in memories.

Because achievements? Validation? They fade.
But impact? Happiness? Legacy?
That’s forever.

And for everyone who’s walked beside me, cheered for me, lifted me—I am, because YOU are.

With love,
Deepali

From Outrage to Action: How We Turned Grief into Change After Jhaanavi's Death

 “Cut her a check for $11,000. She was of limited value anyway.”

Those words, spoken by Officer Daniel Auderer after the tragic death of Jhaanavi Kandula, continue to echo in my mind like a broken alarm — sharp, callous, and impossible to ignore.

Eleven thousand dollars? Is that what a young Indian immigrant’s life is worth? That’s it? Are we really that disposable? That invisible? That unworthy in the eyes of those who are sworn to protect us?

My first reaction, like many others, was a tidal wave of rage, grief, and disbelief. I wanted him held accountable. Fully. Publicly. I wanted to shout until someone—anyone—listened. I wanted to break something, to make noise, to do something. I screamed into pillows. I cried for nights. Those words haunted me. Still do.

Then came the overwhelming urge for justice. I knew he couldn’t just walk away from this. So, I did what I know how to do best—I started writing. Letters to SPD. To the Office of Police Accountability. To the Mayor. To the City of Seattle. I didn’t know if anyone would listen, but I had to try.

I organized solidarity walks, hosted town halls, opened up difficult conversations. We made ourselves visible—because visibility is power. And we needed power to demand accountability.

But once the rage began to settle, another question surfaced. Why did he say that? What kind of person even thinks that, let alone says it out loud? Was he an outlier—or a reflection of a deeper problem? Could this be the mindset of others in uniform too? I didn’t want to believe that. I couldn’t believe that.

And that’s when I met Victoria Beach—a fierce community advocate who’s been working with SPD for years to bridge cultural gaps. The moment I met her, something clicked. I knew exactly what I needed to do.

We had to help bridge that cultural divide.
Because maybe it wasn’t just cruelty. Maybe it was ignorance. A complete lack of understanding of who we are.

They don’t know our stories. Our struggles. Our achievements. Our deep cultural roots. They don’t see how hard we’ve worked to build our lives here—how much we’ve given, how much we’ve lost just to belong.

Maybe they don’t see our humanity because they’ve never had the opportunity to witness it.

And while yes, it should be on them to educate themselves… it’s also on us to speak up. To show up. To stand tall in our identity and tell our stories out loud.

Because how can anyone empathize with what they’ve never seen or known?

I’ve always believed there are two kinds of people in this world: those who sit back and blame the system, and those who roll up their sleeves and step inside to change it.

In July 2024, we formed the Indian Community Advisory Council, a team of nine fearless individuals who chose to be part of the solution—not the problem. 

Together, we began the real work. Not glamorous. Not always easy. But necessary.
We’ve now led 9 training sessions with SPD, hosted 4 community engagement events, and have personally trained over 100 new police recruits, giving them a window into our world— our values, our lived realities.

And what stands out the most? At the end of each session, we walk away with something powerful: mutual respect. Connection. Smiles exchanged. Hands folded. Recruits greeting us with a heartfelt, “Namaste.”

It’s in those moments that I know we’re doing something that matters.
That change—real change—doesn’t always come from outrage. Sometimes, it comes from showing up, from choosing empathy, from telling our stories boldly and beautifully until they can't be ignored.

They didn’t know us. That was part of the problem.
But now—they're beginning to.

And that’s a start.

And just like that, you're SIX

 My Dear Dia,

It’s here. The day we celebrate you—our little firecracker, our in-house diva, the queen of chaos and sunshine. Happy 6th birthday, my darling girl. 💛

Now, let me tell you a little story. You’ve always been a great sister. But did you know you were already being the best little sister before you were even born?

Picture this: It’s June 17th, 2018. I’m in the middle of prepping for Ansh’s 4th birthday party. The balloons are blown, the cake is ready, the games are lined up... and suddenly, boom, labor pains. But you? You were like, “No worries, Mom. I’ll just hang tight in here while you finish up this party.” 😎 You didn't want Ansh to not have his moment.

I was 3 cm dilated, having contractions, playing musical chairs, and clenching my teeth while yelling, “Pass the parcel!” You were chillin’. Waiting. Respecting your brother’s big day like the absolute legend you are. 

And as soon as Ansh finished opening his gifts, we grabbed our hospital bag and rushed off to the hospital. And a few hours later, you waltz into this world! 

You’ve been lighting up our lives since Day 1. Literally. We named you Dia because the sky turned this fiery red-orange hue as you were born, like the universe dimmed the lights and spotlighted your entrance. And now? You reminding us of it everyday:

“I am the light of this house.”

We tell you to brush your teeth — “No, because I’m the light of this house.”

We ask you to go to bed — “I’ll go when I want. I am the light of this house.”

Ansh may be the big brother, but you? You are the boss. The self-appointed queen. I’m sorry! “The light of the house”

And yet… beneath that larger-than-life presence is the kindest heart. You care so deeply, give the warmest hugs and oh! That laughter of yours. So infectious! 

You love taking the bus with Ansh. One day, things got a little dramatic. Ansh came home all quiet and pouty. When I asked what happened, he mumbled, “Some girl said I have lice in my hair…”
Ugh. Rude.

But the best part? The next day, you marched back on that bus like a mini bodyguard. You found that girl, looked her straight in the eye, and said, “Be nice to my brother.”

Like a boss. No hesitation, no fluff. Just straight-up justice.

That’s who you are, Dia. Fierce. Protective. 

You love your brother fiercely. You cried at football camp because you couldn’t find Ansh. You refused to sleep in your room while he was away at camp. And when you don’t see him around, your whole face falls down. He is your safety blanket, like you are his

You also cried at school recently, and the nurse called me. “Dia isn’t sick,” she said, “but she’s very emotional.”
I got you on the phone: “Dia, what happened?”
You: “I miss you.”
So, I rush to school in panic-mode. Maybe someone was mean to you? Maybe something happened? Nope. Turns out your class was celebrating two birthdays, and yours wasn’t one of them.

All that drama? Because you wanted your party now. We had to have a serious talk about calendars, and it only took 1.5 hours to do that😅

You are also a big helper! You help me with dishes, laundry, everything—even if it takes twice as long and the house ends up more messy. 

During our showcase, you basically run the backstage like it’s your own personal kingdom. While everyone else is busy panicking over last-minute cues, there you are—strutting around like the tiny CEO. One minute you’re handing out flowers, the next you’re casually putting blush on someone’s forehead (not their cheeks—because who made those rules, right?).

You're playing games, cracking jokes, distracting stressed-out dancers, and somehow making everyone feel like they’ve got this. Honestly, I should be paying you for stage management. You’re not just a rockstar—you’re the whole manager, hype crew, glam squad, and comic relief rolled into one sparkly little human.

You're my goofball, my sunshine, my sass queen, and my soul’s biggest joy.

You make me laugh, you make me think, you make me question all my parenting strategies—sometimes all in one minute.

Oh! And hands down, one of my absolute favorite Dia moments ever—picture this: a room full of people at the studio, buzzing with energy. You're about to make your grand entrance. Naman, sweet Naman, is standing at the door, all smiles, ready to greet you with a big warm hug. He goes, “Hi Dia!” with open arms…

And what do you do?

You don’t even blink. You casually take off your jacket—like a queen disrobing after a long day of ruling kingdoms—and hand it over to him without saying a word. No hug, no eye contact, just a swift handoff like, “Telme how it was.” Total "Poo from Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham"

Still laughing. Still not over it.

You’ve officially entered that glorious age where… everything is my fault. I mean everything.

You didn’t like soccer. Hated it. Begged me with those dramatic eyes to take you out. So I did what any mom would—I told Dad to handle it. So, he got you out of soccer. And guess what? A few days later, out of nowhere, you go, “Mom, you didn’t even let me stay in soccer long enough!” Excuse me?? 

Then there was football camp. You insisted on not wearing a sweatshirt. “I’ll be fine, Mom!” Fast forward 30 minutes, you get there, see other kids in sweatshirts… and suddenly I’m the villain: “Moooommm! You didn’t give me a sweatshirt!”

I mean, I’m fully expecting you to trip over in your school and yell, “Thanks a lot, Mom!” 

But hey—if being blamed for everything means I’m always top of mind, I’ll take it. (Kind of.)

This year, you’ve taught me:

• That giggles are contagious
• That the best way to start your day is by calling your hotel neighbors (even if they’re next door)
• That “San Franskisko” is the best way to say it
• And that I should never, ever assume the nurse is calling about a real emergency

You live loud. You love hard. And you remind me every day to let go, laugh more, and dance like nobody’s watching (even though you prefer it when everyone’s watching).

Happy Birthday, Dia.
Thank you for turning our world upside down in the most beautiful, chaotic, hilarious way possible.
Keep shining. Keep ruling.

And yes, you are the light of this house—just maybe don’t use that as a legal argument in family court someday. 😂

Love you to the stars and back,
Mom